And to think I left you all with that delightful image of me comparing carrots to pavement star-fish. Ah, well.
How are you all? I’m, well, somewhat traumatised by my own innards, I suppose. I’m still waiting for surgery, or even a date for surgery (the NHS being delightfully vague about these things unless your leg has fallen right off). And every time I went back to the doctors’ for a check-up, they found something else wrong with me, which got a little dispiriting. I then lost my head completely and attempted to keep up a façade of being the Biggest Strongest Jolly Green Giant in Christendom at work, which meant I’d get home in a shaky, tetchy, puppy-kicking state of mind. We don’t have a puppy. Which was frustrating, me, roaming the parks at sunset, looking for unattended puppies to boot into the lake, while the husband patiently did all the washing-up and then called me home with an alpenhorn at feeding time. It is even possible I got a little depressed [A little depressed? That was a little depressed? God spare us all from seeing you moderately depressed, then - Ed].
Well, we shall draw a veil over my brief sojourn in the Miry Slough of Despond [Not nearly as bad as Slough itself]. In the end, despite being physically no better, and in fact deeply irritated to find that I was Officially Worse Than They Thought, my Stiff Upper Lip and I had rather a bad falling out, I cried for hours, and embarrassingly I feel a good deal better for it.
So I’ve come back.
It doesn’t hurt in the least that I have purchased yet another notebook to add to The Ziggurat of Lost Plots:
Though this is the notebook to end all notebooks. Friends, meet The New Girl. Any day now, I will stop licking her possessively.
